


Extreme Ways

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Ben's Gap Year of Mass Murder, Cock Worship, Comfort/Angst, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Lovers To Enemies, M/M, Shotgunning, Virgin Hux, Virgin Kylo Ren, benarmie, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 06:08:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15113402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: Ben Solo finds himself in the First Order—he’s not Kylo Ren yet. The guide to his new life is Armitage Hux, a young major Ben becomes fascinated with. Armitage tells him about the deities of Arkanis, and they decide to try out a lewd ritual. This fic is totally not an excuse to write semi-religious cock worship.





	Extreme Ways

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a prompt fill for the [Kylux cantina](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/172006280391/fertility-goddess-statue) on the theme of "fertility goddess statue;" I published a short version in March - this is the full story

“Like penumbra,” Ben says.

“What?”

“A shadow cast by an opaque object is called a penumbra.”

“I know what penumbra _is._ I don’t know how is it a suitable response to ‘how are you.’“

“Half light,” Ben explains. “Half shadow.”

He’s twenty-three and still in his Jedi robes. Major Hux is in the shuttle with him.

“I imagine it’s quite a transformative moment for you,” he says.

Ben’s robes are rain-soaked and bloody.

“It is,” he admits.

“You’re strangely collected,” Hux notes; he opens his mouth to explain himself, but Hux adds, “That’s admirable.”

Ben shouldn’t blush, but he does.

“Thanks.”  

His hands are cramped. He can still feel the weight of his lightsaber. Hux leans back, makes himself comfortable. His legs are crossed at the ankle. Ben mimics him without thinking.

“I never understood how such an ancient religion could be so bipolar,” Hux says. “Light, dark; what about the dawn, or twilight? It’s unnatural to only worship day and night. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression that primitive systems of belief base their doctrine on observable phenomena, don’t they?”

“Do you believe?” Ben asks him. He feels like he’s burning away. He’ll rise from the embers, dormant fires rekindled; Hux will bear witness to his transformation. He can’t have him look away.

“Worship has a tendency to be degraded to superstition once scientific thinking triumphs in a society.” Hux says this as if it’s a sacred secret, the dogma of faith-beyond-faith. He reaches into his pocket and produces a necklace with a small figurine, half-human and half-animal and very pronouncedly female. “Tradition remains.”

Ben is eyeing the figurine, pulled to it by a power subtler than the Force. It seems to be a copy of a statue; a forgotten goddess on a pedestal. “Who was she?”

“We never had names for our gods.” Hux smiles at the figurine; mocking, afraid. “Naming something means control over the thing; we would never have dreamed of it. Our deities were forever anonymous. She’s the goddess of rain, and by association, fertility. A charm to bring luck in love.” He closes his fist around the necklace. Ben can still sense the shape of it. He looks up, meets Hux's eyes. They are the colour of the spring rains on the planet they’re leaving behind in flames.

“Do you need luck?” he asks slowly. Hux blinks, but doesn’t look away.

“It was my mother’s,” he says, trying to sound unaffected. Ben knows better. The hollow ache in Hux's chest is all too familiar.

“She must’ve been lucky in love if she had you as a result.”

“ _Result,_ ” Hux repeats with a barked laugh; his eyes are wide with wonder and fear. Ben puts his hands over Hux’s curled fist. It’s a question and a promise.

 _Thank you for showing me,_  he wants to say. The shuttle drops out of hyperspace before he could part his lips. The _Supremacy_ looms above them. He can feel Master Snoke’s presence. He pulls back his hands.

* * *

Snoke promised to give him a new name. It’s a shame he cannot give him a new face.

Snoke sits on a throne in a golden robe. When he beckons Ben closer, he doesn’t want to go. He lingers. He doesn’t have to like Master Snoke, he reminds himself. He only has to trust him.

He remembers the grotesque face of the last person he trusted, illuminated by harsh green light.

“You have come to me, my apprentice,” Snoke says slowly. “You will prove your worth to me.”

“I am ready to do your bidding,” Ben swears. He’s not actually ready, but he’s willing. Curious, rather; wants to see how far he can push himself without breaking—and then: what happens when he does break. What becomes of him. What is creation if not a bone-shattering bang and atoms crumbling away?

His soaked clothes are dripping blood and rain over the polished floor of the throne room.

* * *

Hux puts him in a clean uniform, because that’s the only type of clothes they have on hand, and braids his hair. Ben wonders why Hux was chosen to go fetch him, respond to that blaring distress call, a scream tearing through the Force: _save me, Master, I surrender_. The task must have been below Hux’s rank. He senses that Hux sees it as a privilege, to be in charge of Snoke’s apprentice, their future enforcer, a new Lord Vader.

When Ben looks into the mirror, all he can see is a young man in an ill-fitting uniform.

 _Go home_ , he thinks. Then he thinks of the temple burning.

“Fetching,” Hux says. Touches the insignia on Ben’s sleeve. Ben can feel his devotion, and for a flaring second, wishes it was aimed at him. Hux watches Ben’s reflection over his shoulder, and he looks hungry. He sees power.

* * *

Ben doesn’t expect them to be friends. Doesn’t expect to _have_ friends at all. He’s still in training, being forged into a secret weapon, something unknown and remote. No-one can say his name, and he keeps his face hidden in the shadow of a cowl’s hood. It feels too much like his old Jedi robes.

Hux shows him around. He asked Ben to call him _Armitage_. He was very coy about it. Ben follows him like a shadow in the after-hours of his lessons. He still hasn’t met the students he had brought with him. He refuses to be worried. Snoke must have a plan. Surely, they all fit into it somehow. It’s obvious that the First Order is just a means to an end, but the way Armitage talks about it, Ben almost believes Snoke takes this bizarre parade of survivors seriously.  

Ben likes their ships. He never says it, but Armitage must have noticed it anyway, because he keeps bringing him to hangars on their little tours that are supposed to showcase the might and the inner working of the Order.

“May I fly a TIE one day?” Ben asks. He and Poe (no—a boy named Poe he used to know; what would Poe think of him now?) always felt guilty about it, but they always wanted to try (he and this stranger). There are no loyalties left to betray with his fascination, so he might as well just give into it. The TIE looks like a strange dragon-like creature watching him, unblinking.

“I have special orders not to let you close to any vehicle that could break atmo,” Armitage says, then adds, “I won’t tell anybody.”

They share a glance.

Armitage is not a troublemaker; he just has his own peculiar, deluded ideas about the Order, his grand plans. Ben finds himself drawn to them. He is a ghost in this war machine, while Armitage sees himself as dark matter, electricity, hyper-fuel. He’s not entirely wrong about himself: he’s Force-null, but he has the energy of Ben’s cracked kyber-crystal, fragile and pulsing with power.

He’s twenty-eight, but doesn’t look much older than Ben. His mannerisms are boyish, awkward: he’s smiling at Ben in a way that looks painfully fake, although Ben can sense the genuine joy behind it. Ben climbs into the cockpit, and Armitage walks back to give him space, his gait too formal, shoulders too tense.  He’s like a wound-up toy-soldier.

Ben hopes he’ll watch the launch. He wants to impress him. It makes no sense why he’d want to do that, but it feels vital.

* * *

“It’s so confusing—what can I call you?” Armitage asks in the mess hall of barrack BA-101. They spend the most of their evenings on a snowy planet that is being gutted.

“Just Ben,” Ben says, in lieu of a better answer. _I’m the prince of the ashes of Alderaan_ , he wants to tell him. _I’m a knight but not a Jedi: I slaughtered them all._

“That’s the one thing I _can’t_ call you,” Armitage corrects, pointing a fork at him. A piece of artificial meat is trembling on it. “That’s why I’m _asking_. ‘Jedi Killer’ is not a name. That’s how I’ve been thinking of you, you know.”

As a matter of fact, Ben knows _better._ Armitage has been calling him _my friend_ in his head; it sounds like a coveted rank or title.

“I don’t know,” he says. They’re sitting too close. Shoulder-to-shoulder. Armitage never lets him eat alone. Ben is grateful for that.

There is still no news of his fellow students who are supposed to keep him company.

“Darth Ignorance, then,” Armitage suggests. He’s grinning. He always has a terrified smile after having told a joke; can’t pull off a sabacc-face for the life of him, but can’t laugh openly either.

“Master Snoke will name me once I proved my worth,” Ben explains and adds, with an air of self-importance, “and I’m not a Sith.”

 _Through passion, I gain strength_ , he thinks as Armitage grimaces. If only it’d be that easy. He remembers the fertility statue Armitage had showed him on the first day they met, how it glinted with a promise of something more. Their thighs are brushing under the table.

He’s too focused on Armitage to notice the impending intrusion, and by the time Brendol Hux barges in, it’s too late to give a warning. Brendol’s plate is full and it tips to the side dangerously as he reaches out to ruffle up Armitage’s hair.

“How can you eat like this?” he asks. It cannot be mistaken for parental teasing, not with how tight his grip is. Armitage jerks free, pale with anger.

“I’m growing it out,” he says, too defensive; he hastily brushes his hair out of his face, but it falls back over his brows in a matter of seconds. He has a lanky fringe, too short to be combed and slicked back, but too long to look formal.

Brendol looks at Ben, fixing his gaze on him. He doesn’t notice that his pletik soup has splashed all over his tray. “Don’t let him have you believe it’s fashionable around here.”

Ben keeps his hair at shoulder-length. Armitage keeps braiding it for him. He’s unsure why they still pretend he can’t do it alone; on that first day he really needed Armitage’s help. His hands were too heavy. Slippery.

“On second thought, I’d assume Force-users are an exception,” Brendol adds when Ben just glares at him. “A non-regulation haircut can send a strong message, but I’d advise you to reconsider the length nevertheless. It makes you look a bit too...pretty. Don’t you think he’s pretty, Armitage?”

Ben tenses. He doesn’t want to hear the answer. Not like this.

Armitage doesn’t fall for the bait. “Mind the soup,” he says. He’s thinking, _mind your own kriffing business_. He’s also thinking about a little venomous beetle in a jar.

* * *

Armitage looks beautiful at the funeral.

* * *  

Ben used to have a vow. It had to do with the old Master’s teachings, and purity. Luke’s rules were too lax. Needlessly liberated. Ben revelled in the discipline he discovered in controlling himself. There were things he could never learn how to command: tears, temper, mood-swings, fate, but this—the burn of attraction in the gut—can be managed. There are entire manuals on how to do it, in the sacred texts: how to transform sexual energy into raw power.

He tells Snoke all about it; how it made him stronger than all his fellow pupils, who foolishly followed their desires, wasted this incredible resource on feeble passions. Snoke is visibly disinterested by the account. Ben stumbles over his words. He used to think this discovery was genius, his skeleton key to a might that was neither Light nor Dark; a Force that was deep within.

He doesn’t brag that he never even touched himself. Suddenly, he’s embarrassed by the fact.

“You might want to look into the Sith teachings on natural impulses,” Snoke advises.

The first line of the Qotsisajak is this: _peace is a lie, there is only passion_. Ben knows this; but the Sith doctrine is outdated. Snoke promised a new religion.

“What are your views, Master?”

“You’re still young; you must find your own truth.”

It’s not clarified whether it’s a task. It could be.

The Sith mantra is not helping. Ben wishes he knew the hymn of a nameless goddess of rain; that Armitage taught it to him.

* * *

The education the holonet has to offer is inconsequential. It’s filth. He meditates to cleanse his mind of the most haunting images. Then he looks again.

He watches Armitage bend over a console, sketching a remodified plan of a thermal oscillator. _Feisty ginger twink_ , he thinks, trying out the new vocabulary. He doesn’t like it. Armitage is so much more than labels and tags. He lets his gaze drop; Armitage is not wearing his teal coat, the jodphurs exposed. _Squishy little ass_ , Ben’s mind supplies. Something stirs in his gut. He’s always been aware of the various ways one’s behind could be utilised. He never lingered on the thought. He gazes on, and soon, he has to leave the room, refusing to will away his erection but too embarrassed by its presence. It’s like everybody can tell.

* * *

They leave the planet. Ben gets his own quarters on the _Supremacy_ ; Armitage is posted to the _Absolution_ —since he made General, it’s expected he’d get his own ship soon.

Ben sneaks off for surprise visits. Armitage is always happy to see him, although he can’t for the life of him entertain guests. They just _hang_. That word has a more foreign taste than the erotic content of Ben’s purged search history. He always had people around who wanted something from him: recognition, guidance, love, a better status; he never had friends who would just share his space.

(His followers are still nowhere to be found. The Force clouds them; Ben can see Snoke’s shadow over the mist.)

He’s spending entire nights on Armitage’s ice blue couch while the man works himself to an early death. He’s welcome to his refrigerator unit, solitary sonic, resources, anything but the bed.

They talk work, mostly. Ben admires Armitage’s focus. He has devoted his entire life to the Force, has sacrificed everything for it; still, it feels he’s just half as diligent as Armitage is.

Ben has been regarding himself a grown-up ever since he was eighteen, with so many responsibilities: help train the padawans, hone his own skills, be the best version of what was expected of him. He wants to learn how be the kind of adult Armitage is. With his father gone, he’s less childish—still too conceited, too eager for approval, and his mind is a screaming mess—but then again, Ben doesn’t expect there’ll ever be a calm silence in his own head. He envies how Armitage can recover from the lowest blow and soldier on, ready to adapt to any situation.

Ben tends to have grand schemes. Everything must align perfectly. Manipulation is an easy tactic—Skywalker is no longer there to condemn it. He watches Armitage type a report on his datapad on the other end of the couch, their legs casually tangled. He knows how easy it would be to talk him into something compromising. How he could make him think it was his idea all along. But he doesn’t want Armitage to make a move just because he’s pulling at his strings. That wouldn’t be entertaining. Ben would hate to admit it, but he’s getting bored with Snoke’s lessons. He’s still not worthy of a new name. There’s still a trial to stand. He imagines Armitage pronouncing his name, or calling him ‘baby’ or some such nonsense; how Snoke’s promise wouldn’t matter any longer if Armitage named him first.

 _We never had names for our gods,_ Armitage told him. He said that names have power.

 _Give me that power_. Ben is ready to beg. He doesn’t.

* * *

He’s aware that Armitage is, well, weird, and therefore a strange person to be obsessed with. Armitage’s only companion was a boy at the academy; later it turned out he only befriended Armitage out of pity. He talks of the boy with sneering scorn, while pretending he’s all but forgotten the incident. He’s confident he managed to play Ben, trick him into thinking that he’s a good friend, because Ben doesn't know any better, and if it's up to Armitage, he never will. His jealousy is flattering.

He’s posed on the couch, putting a lot of effort into looking casual, his uniform sleeves rolled up but gloves still on, a vapor stick dangling between elegant fingers. Armitage pretends it’s an indulgence, but Ben can sense he doesn't even like the taste. They’re listening to records on Armitage's datapad, and that's something, that's _real_ , because Armitage _actually_ enjoys this. Ben would need to dig deeper to find out if Armitage likes Ben’s head on his shoulder, slouched against him as if he was tired, his alert heart beating louder than the music.

Armitage told him these are called exile songs, ballads the Imperials composed when they were forced to retreat to the unknown regions. It's a hum of a hundred voices in harmony, but with a restless rhythm, fists hitting durasteel walls and benches, the staccato of war-drums or an SOS signal; underneath in all, the merciless silence of infinite space.

“This part,” Armitage breathes, smoke rolling off of his lips. “It gets you _here.”_ He puts a trembling hand above his stomach, thinks about singing along to these songs when he was a little boy in an escape pod, following the tune when all he wanted to do was to scream. How they recorded these songs almost a decade later, swearing they’d never forget the hardship they commemorated; Armitage made a private little promise that he’d take revenge for his stolen childhood. Let the galaxy hear him, loud and clear. Let him hear shriek, _fire,_ and let them burn.

_Come home glorious, sons of the Empire, bring back oh bring back flowers._

Armitage's eyes are glossy, he mouths the lyrics not even knowing he’s doing it, and a sick sun burns within him. Ben swallows the smoke and pretends he has a vapor stick of his own, he hums along as if he knew the song, as if it meant anything to him—but it does, even without the enraged nostalgy, because he’ll remember this, listening to records with Armitage deep into the gamma shift when they should be long asleep.

He’ll remember this: Armitage peering at him from under heavy lashes, a soft chuckle seeing his attempts to swallow the smoke and get a taste of his own. Armitage leaning closer, making Ben’s lips part with the press of his thumb. He blows the smoke into his mouth.

“Do you like it?” he asks, enjoying the moment just a little too much, again thinking he fooled Ben into craving the attention of a bastard. Ben wants to say, _no, I like you_. He can't find his voice.

* * *

Armitage has a special little hole between his thighs, and Ben can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop thinking about Armitage’s _ass,_ how that tight hole would feel around his cock, how _Armitage_ would feel. He’s pure. He’s a virgin. Ben wouldn’t have to give him anything: they’d _exchange_ this singular gift. The problem is the cost of it: Ben doesn't want to gamble with their friendship and his own sanity.

The intensity of his attraction cannot be normal, or healthy. If a large amount of the galaxy’s population went through it daily, they wouldn’t be able to function. Ben never felt arousal of this severity in anyone else’s head. He doesn’t know how to deal with it if he can no longer suppress it. He feels animalistic but oddly thrilled as he lies on his bed in the privacy of his own quarters, fully naked after a sonic, cock standing proudly.

He wants Armitage to witness this, because he never cared about something so base and insignificant as an erection, but on closer inspection, it’s something—formidable, and he imagines Armitage would be interested. Maybe he’d come closer to the bed to inspect it better, and Bed would be restrained. He doesn’t lift his hand to stroke himself, feigns he can’t; he wants Armitage to do it, but Armitage is not there. If he were, he’d take off his gloves, and then, and then—

Ben’s untouched cock twitches, pulses; he feels invincible, he feels like a fool for ever trying to transform this sexual energy into something else, when it’s most powerful on its own. He tosses his head, wriggles around, humps the air but still won’t put a finger on himself. The tickle of cool, vented air already feels like too much; how would he bear the heat of Armitage, the softness of him? What would he do with _Armitage’s_ cock, when he only has a—spiritual connection to his _own_?

_He’s not without religion._

If Armitage touched him, it’d be holy. _Yeah fuck yeah make me come, I’m so close, take it all._ There: holoporn vocabulary could be their sacred tongue.

* * *

When they first kiss it’s nothing like in the holovids, and there’s nothing divine about it either. They’re in Armitage’s quarters, the engines of the _Absolution_ a distant hum, and it’s like any other night, except they stayed up long enough to abandon care. Armitage has to be at the bridge in two hours, and Ben needs to prepare for his lessons, but here they are, on the couch like they belong there, and Ben’s chapped lips are pressed to Armitage’s, who licks into his mouth.

Every movement is quick, experimental, like it’d help them to explain it away later: hasty, playful kisses—but too many of them. _One_ was too much, but they can’t stop. Ben can tell they’ll both want to think it happened, that it _counts,_ because Armitage has only been kissed by the boy who pitied him, and he’s closer to thirty than to twenty, and if anyone _knew_ what would they _think,_ if _Ben_ knew would he still be kissing him, because Ben must think highly of him, who wouldn’t, he’s the youngest general of the First Order and probably the oldest virgin in their ranks, isn’t that _spectacular_ —

“I can hear you think,” Ben whispers between wet kisses.

“Can’t help thinking, I’m an intellectual,” Armitage says with a bashful smile and eyes round with worry that Ben won't be able to tell he’s joking, because he’s not _funny._

“I mean, I _can_ hear you think _,”_ Ben says with more emphasis, but Armitage disregards telepathy and how much Force-nulls usually hate it, and just goes back for another kiss.  He thinks that now that they’re talking it probably means they’ll stop kissing soon, and how neither of them will have the courage to initiate it next time, or ever.

Armitage is right about that. It’d mean something, the next time they did it, and Ben doesn’t know what kissing _means,_ because the padawans—the dead teenagees he slaughtered _killer killer killer murder murder no going back—_ did it for, kissed each other for a variety of reasons, and when dad—Han Solo—brought him to cantinas and looked the other way giving his son—a murderer a future murderer he killed them—some privacy Ben hated him for it because he had a vow of celibacy and he was still a kriffing Jedi on holiday because people don't just stop being who they are—well he’s not a Jedi now, he’s—

Here’s the deal, he’s whatever Vader was, and his whole life he was taught to hate him.

Armitage strokes his face. Ben stopped kissing him.

* * *

Snoke senses the change in him, of course he does; he deems him ready when Ben feels the lowest, hollow and aimless, and tells him to go back to the Jedi temple. By now, Ben knows better than to oppose the order. The phantom pain lighting leaves is a good reminder to behave himself.

Maybe he’d rebel, in silence, in secret, maybe he’d start forging a plan if Armitage wasn’t there to accompany him, along with a number of troopers as if they’re headed to battle. Snoke said Skywalker reportedly returned; Ben sincerely doubts that—he cannot feel Skywalker’s presence as they draw closer to the planet in a shuttle. This must be a test, then: he must face his scorched past. There is another explanation: that Snoke is being paranoid, and jumped on a false lead instead of listening to what the Force tells him; this thought is treasonous and should be dismissed—that’s why it stays, that’s why it eats at him.

“How are you coping?” Armitage asks as they prepare to land and Ben is gripping a handle so hard he might break it.

“I’m...not,” he says, out of breath. Armitage hums, puts his hand over the small of Ben’s back, a fleeting caress. It’s been days since their kiss. They won’t mention it, but Armitage keeps thinking about it, and he has the amulet around his neck, hidden by his uniform jacket.

“This must be difficult for you,” Armitage says. He dropped his hand. He sounds like a droid reading a human psychology manual out loud, but Ben doesn’t mind it, because he can feel the desperate need to be able to comfort, to understand, because despite himself, Armitage _cares_. Ben was supposed to be a one-time ego trip: Armitage wanted a novice who’d covet him until an inevitable disillusionment, but then Ben turned out to be a true ally, a real friend, and now he’s unsure what they are. It doesn’t matter, not now; what matters is that Ben is hurting. There’s no gain for Armitage to be here; he’s only here because Ben needs him.

“You know, it’s weird,” Ben says, keeping his eyes on the viewport, chasing Armitage’s thoughts; it’s easier to deal with them than with his own. “I’m not afraid to ugh, see the—to see what was left, I’m afraid I’ll go there and it’ll be _unchanged_. It doesn’t make any sense, but I get this feeling that I’ll go to the main hall and find them all at kriffing _lightsaber practice_ , or meditating, and Skywalker will just look at me and say that I’m late, and—That it was just a nightmare, and I’d be there and I’d be too _weak_ to do it all over again, I—”

“You’re not weak,” Armitage whispers. Ben becomes aware of the stormtroopers around them, how he revealed himself, and frustrated, he punches the wall and groans. Armitage does nothing to stop him.

“You’ll pass the Supreme Leader’s test,” Armitage says, calm like the sea beneath, eyes green like the trees. Ben hasn’t seen _green_ since he left here. He was not made for space. He wants to tear the shuttle apart, massacre the troopers, what’s a few more kids, what’s a few more deaths. He’ll need to get used to it anyway: Snoke wants a bloodhound, not a whining stray.

Armitage’s hand is pressed to his back again, and he can’t move, can’t lash out. It keeps him still. He gulps down heaving breaths, feeling like he’s going to break any minute, but if he crumbles, Armitage will be there to pick up the pieces. He’s not going anywhere.

* * *

Ben walks through the ruins, searching for life forms he knows are not present, preparing for an ambush of emotion that never comes. The place is vacant, colourless; looks like a holo-recording or a memory, not something that is real. The devastation has been washed away by the rain; the piles of wood and stone don’t signify anything. He stops by a heap, sensing something: bones down deep—a mass grave. He inspects his feelings for triumph or guilt. There isn’t anything. He’s been carrying the death of his fellow students; now it feels weightless. Inconsequential. They’ve been alive for a while. Now they are not.

“What is it?” Armitage asks. He has his command cap on and his blaster at hand, as if they were on some military mission and not on a glorified journey of self-discovery, where the self you’ve been looking for is just...gone.

“Ben Solo has been buried here,” Ben says, realising it as he says it—but there’s no epiphany; it’s like he’s always known this, but was too afraid to admit.

“Right,” Armitage mutters. “Where does that leave you?”

“Marching forward.” Ben takes a step as if to demonstrate, walking over the grave. An hour ago he’d have been tempted to stomp, or dance; now he feels clear-headed, recharged. Armitage sidesteps the grave as he runs after him, following a winding path.

“What do you suppose your new name will be, Mr. Not Ben?” he asks, attempting to chat. Ben’s strange mood terrifies him; Ben wants to tell him that there’s nothing to fear, but it’s easier to just play along, and besides, he enjoys making Armitage uncomfortable. It’s his turn after all the frustration he put Ben through.

“I like the sound of Armitage,” he muses. Maybe there’s a casual confession there; he tenses when Armitage doesn’t say anything for a second too long.

“You cannot be Armitage,” he replies finally, a bit shrill. “That’s me.”

Ben smirks and turns; he offers his hand in a grand gesture.

“Maybe I should take your last name then,” he says. “We could get married.”

Armitage interlaces their fingers. “Why would I marry you, idiot?”

“I’d protect you,” Ben promises. He pulls Armitage closer, and points at the distance, at a hulking frame of a shattered building. “That used to be the temple,” he says. “I set it on fire. Some kids were trapped inside.”

Armitage stares ahead with glassy eyes. It’s hard to tell what he’s feeling. Ben is getting excited, and can’t help but project it.

“We’ll build a galaxy,” Armitage says, “where such sacrifices will no longer be necessary.”

“Until then, a few more sacrifices,” Ben adds. The both of them think about Starkiller as they watch the ruin of the temple, hand in hand. Such horrendous monuments to create; such a frightening legacy to leave behind. Still, what that temple signifies is this: the first time Ben felt like the master of his own destiny. It was intoxicating. Now he’s sober, and the echoing screams have stopped.

* * *

It’s raining. The smell of it bothers Ben, because it hasn’t changed. The troopers are patrolling the outskirts of the settlement, venturing further and further away. Ben stays put, because there’s one place he hasn’t visited yet, and he cannot leave the planet and abandon everything that’s happened until he goes there. The past must be buried: this is the test.

Armitage stays with him, not bothered by the drizzle; he refused to share Ben’s cowl and even took off his command cap, enjoying the cool droplets on his naked face. He’s beautiful like this, long lashes wet, his hair shades darker.  They’re sitting on a wall; it’s all that remains of the communal showers. Somehow, it’s fitting: all those naked bodies and he never cared enough to look twice, although everybody thought he was _nice_ and most of them would have been willing to experiment. Armitage is fully dressed, and he knows just how horrible Ben can be, how _unfinished_ and burdened he is, and he doesn’t mind it, he sits with him in the rain, legs crossed. Ben wants them to part for him.

“Are Arkanisians waterproof?” he asks, trying to lighten the mood and divert his attention.

Armitage scoffs. “We are just resilient.”

“What is it like? The planet.”

“Haven’t really been there,” Armitage says. Looks at him slyly. “The New Republic was quick to occupy it.”

“I just thought—You know, because you know so much about it.”

“I’ve just done my research.” His hand briefly touches the necklace through the jacket. Ben watches, mouth dry.

“Let me see it,” he blurts out. Armitage tenses, glances at him, fingers idly playing with the leather strip of the figurine.

“Or what?”

Ben can feel his face heat up and catches a flare of amusement in Armitage’s eyes. Two can play this game; two can lose, or two can win.

“Please,” he says, leaning closer. “Please, please General Hux—”

“Kriff—”

“—may I see your good-luck charm, sir?”

“Kriff _off,_ ” Armitage says. He doesn’t like the high-pitched voice Ben used, it sounds like he’s mocking him. He’s jealous of how smooth and deep Ben’s voice is, when his own is either too soft or too harsh. He looks him over; his gaze lingers on Ben’s shoulders, his throat, his mouth, just to drop directly to his crotch. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“What makes you think I have good luck?” Ben asks, making a vague gesture at the settlement he ruined without taking his eyes off Armitage.

Armitage’s smile is a slow, creeping thing. “You could get lucky.”

Ben can taste electricity in the air as Armitage draws closer.  “Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Armitage says.

They keep looking at each other, a silent question shared: how to proceed? Ben can sense that the liminality of the experience is not lost on Armitage: here, they’re alone and unobserved in a way they would never be on a destroyer, and the rain is falling softly and the sea is trashing on the rocks down below. The circumstances are ideal; both of them know what they want; the thing they don’t know is the choreography of how to get it.

“I have a bed,” Ben says before he could think better of it. People get into bed together; Ben might not know the steps leading there, but he wants to share it with Armitage. Except—

“Show me,” Armitage says, and presses their lips together before Ben could tell him that it’s in his old hut.

* * *

“It’s more of an altar,” Armitage observes. Ben can hardly hear him from the blood thrumming in his ears. He never thought he’d have another man here with him; he looks at the stone bed and pictures how it used to be, with the layers of furs and blankets that have been carried away by the winds, the candle on his bedside table so he could work on his calligraphy late into the evening, his macrobinoculars and compass for stargazing.

He _loved_ it here. He was often frustrated by everything else his training included, Skywalker, the other students, how he always had to hold himself back, how homesick he used to be, how guilty he felt when he _wasn’t_ homesick any longer; because he loved his hut—he enjoyed the solitude, the silence.

This is what has been lost: his realest self—the man who lived here, who he used to be when no one was watching and not even Snoke was listening. He thinks about the books he’s been penning, left unfinished; how he never even thought about them since he joined the Order.

This is what’s been gained: Armitage sits on the edge of the barren bed, shrugging off his greatcoat. There’s no roof above them, his tunic is soaking wet and clinging to his narrow chest. Ben is enthralled by his frame: he’s never seen such a skinny man naked. He cannot wait for their differences to be revealed, all the points of contrast. Armitage is slow, teasing, worried. He only takes off his tunic, then sits there in his undershirt for a moment, the necklace glinting in the gloom. When he speaks, he sunds confident, cocky, even.

“Have I ever told you about the god of desire?”

“You’re making him up,” Ben says, watching him, motionless. His hands are hanging limply; where should he put them, on Armitage’s face, his shoulders?

“No, he was as real as the rest,” Armitage says. “Love and the prospect of family is one thing; he represents something else.”

“Do you have his medal?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t walk around with it.” His gaze drops to Ben’s crotch again, now at eye-level; he reaches out, uncertain, settles on hooking a finger into Ben’s belt. He cranes his neck to look him in the face. Ben is too aware of how frightened and blundering he must look, waterlogged, ears sticking out, while Armitage is gorgeous.

 _Ben Solo would have never let this happen_ , he thinks as he presses closer, his half-hard cock brushing against Armitage’s wrist. _Armitage wouldn’t stand_ him _, but he likes_ you _. Wants you_. _Do you dare to want him too?_

“This god,” Armitage says, a bit breathless, “is represented by—something special, something a civilised society would no doubt find scandalous; we have erected stone phalluses for him.” Ben snorts at that. Bites his lips. Armitage goes on calmly, but lets his hand slip down. “Nothing naturalistic, but you could certainly tell what it was supposed to be.” He squeezes Ben’s cock lightly. Ben can only watch him, feeling faint. “And you were to worship it,” Armitage says. “You had to pour oil over it, or milk or honey, and caress it; tell the god your wishes as you pleased him—showed your devotion.”

“Would he listen?” Ben asks.

Armitage hums thoughtfully. A soldier and a scientist, he sets to work with military precision but dreamy consideration and the thrill of experiment, rubbing Ben’s cock gently through the leather of his pants. “It depends on his mood, they say. This god can be selfish, even cruel, destructive; you have to engage him— _play_ with him; you won’t ever conquer or seduce him, and he gets bored if you submit. Really, it’s surprisingly tricky—”

It’s getting harder to concentrate. It’s getting easier to forget what’s around them. Ben fumbles with his fly. “Are you ready for prayer?” he all but grunts. Armitage clicks his tongue.

“Are _you_? I expect you to take it seriously. This ritual is sacred for my people.”

His mind betrays amusement; Ben pretends he can’t sense it, and bows his head.

“What would you have me do, Master of Ceremonies?”

“You should be the one on the altar,” Armitage announces, getting to his feet. Ben doesn’t step back, so they stand chest-to-chest for a lingering moment before changing places.

Armitage’s greatcoat is already soaked through, but it still feels nice, feels important to be splayed out atop it. Armitage undresses him methodically, starting with the boots; Ben’s mind has enough time to wander to this hut’s former occupant—he imagines the old Ben entering just at this moment, seeing his future self stripped by a First Order general, about to be debased in a mockery of faith. He wants to look his former self in the eyes, and ask: _what are you going to do about this? What steps are you willing to take to avoid it happening? Aren’t you tempted to end up just like this? Don’t you feel that everything led to this—me and him?_

Armitage peels off Ben’s pants. There’s a moment of embarrassment as his underwear is revealed. It’s white cotton, a bit fluffy from use. He didn’t request the black regulation briefs First Order officials are supposed to wear: he isn’t one; he didn’t care; he thought it wouldn’t matter, because no one would ever know. It’s in sharp contrast with his dark attire. At least Armitage looks charmed; fond, even—and enthralled completely by the outline of Ben’s swelling cock.

“You’re big,” he says, trying to sound matter-of-fact while lust lights his consciousness up, bright as a star.

Ben frowns, slightly confused. “I’m proportionate,” he says.

Armitage makes a non-committal sound. He pushes up the tunic. Freezes.

“Well. Will you look at that.”

“My stomach?”

“Your—abdominal structure.” Armitage blinks, grazes his fingers over it; it tickles. “You look divine, you know that, right?”

“Then worship me,” Ben says thickly.

Armitage’s attention is back where it matters. His hair falls into his face. He’s sitting between Ben’s knees, looks so good there, looks like he _belongs_. Ben’s pants are gone entirely, and the underwear follows, his kriffing _good boy briefs_. He promises himself to buy a new pair, no, a dozen. Wonders what type Armitage wears, if it’s regulation or something silkier, like his bathrobe, maybe.

He’s mostly naked now, and feels too small and hulking at the same time. He attempts to cover his junk by instinct, abandons the gesture, lies there exposed. He knows his form is _massive_ , that Armitage might not be able to see the vulnerability beneath all the mean muscle, and wonders if he should say something, ask something, _can you be tender, are you capable of that_?  

“Comfortable?” Armitage asks. He nods briskly, holding up his tunic obediently so his chest is on display, the hood framing his face instead of hiding it. He considers taking these last articles of clothing off; he doesn’t know if he should. Armitage gets rid of his gloves, and it occurs to Ben that he’s never seen his hands, not even after all this time spent together. They’re pale, slender and just a little bit cool as he wraps his long fingers around Ben’s cock.

The air is knocked out of Ben’s lungs. All Armitage gives him are a few perfunctory tugs, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s touching him, _pleasuring_ him. Once satisfied with the angle, Armitage grabs the shaft and slaps it to his open palm. It looks and _sounds_ ridiculous, but it also tingles in a way that makes Ben squirm and gasp. Armitage gives him an impish look. It slowly fades off his face as he refocuses on the task at hand.

His expression is the same when he looks at sketches of Starkiller: proud, tense, determined. It makes Ben feel cherished; he melts under Armitage’s hand, who places his palms around his cock, and presses them together, fingers interlaced. The tightness is incredible; even better is the surprising gracefulness of Armitage’s every movement. There _is_ a prayer there: all he begs for is attention.

“So kriffing good,” Ben mumbles, flinches. The phrase sounds meaningless to him, an imitation of something he doesn’t even understand fully, but it makes Armitage beam with a violent joy. He twists Ben’s cock; Ben hisses—there’s not enough friction, just the slippery raindrops and Armitage’s soft palm. Armitage stills completely, panic eradicating his delight in a snap, so Ben says, “ah, maybe I still have some oils—”

“Oh yes,” Armitage says, and looks around as if he had any idea where Ben keeps them. He’s not letting go of his cock, holds it as if it was something precious, but far from fragile: a heavy sceptre or an iron sword, the relic of a ritual.

Ben recollects his senses, looks for the Force-signature of the oils he used to rub on his chaffed hands after duels; the search brings him back to his surroundings, the persistent rain, the ruins, the dead. But he’s safe; he’s safe from _himself_ ,  because Armitage has him, knows him, is making him into somebody he never thought he could become.

There: the oils are still in the drawer of the carved stone nightstand, when everything else has been wasted, destructed. With a flick of his fingers, he calls them closer, and feels Armitage tremble. He rarely uses the Force in his presence; he always senses Armitage’s primal fear disguised as patronising scepticism. He drops the small bottles as unceremoniously as he can, waits for Armitage to collect himself and choose one.

“Is it easy?” Armitage asks as he inspects the oils and quickly settles for one that looks like liquid gold and has the scent of a warm sunset.

“Is what easy?” Ben asks back, too absent-minded to read his intent.

“Using the Force,” Armitage says as he coats his fingers. “I always wondered.”

“It’s—” Ben pauses. Reconsiders. Decides to say what he was going to say anyway. “It’s the easiest thing there is, really.”

Armitage gives him a self-conscious smile, like he expected this exact same answer. “My father could never forgive me for not being Force-sensitive. Chalked it up as one of my many personal failures.”

“You don’t have the bloodline,” Ben says both with pity and reassurance. It’s a shame, really. Armitage could be something truly stunning. Ben never had the patience for Force-nulls, yet here he is, with a man who is supposed to be ordinary, insignificant and dull, but who holds him spellbound.

“I read the Force belongs to all,” Armitage muses as he places his slick hand over Ben’s cock, as if he could lay claim to more than his desire: a power he’ll forever lack, crave and hate.

“Let’s just say the Force clearly has favourites.”

Armitage scoffs. “Of course it has,” he says, starting to rub the oil in. His touch warms it up, makes Ben cock twitch happily. This is exquisite, luxurious; Ben stretches out, pampered, pleased.

“What can I say, I’m special.”

“It was just you and a handful of students against all the others, wasn’t it?” Armitage asks with an odd hint of fascination. Ben’s skin crawls, but he confirms it with a nod. Armitage smiles at him, pinches his cock lightly. “Special indeed. Maybe the Force chose you.”

He’s just humouring him, but Ben repeats silently, _the Force chose me_. He never thought about it like this. _What if the Force made a choice. What if the Force willed it all to happen_. _Maybe it wanted to be cleansed from—dilettantes, maybe—Now that the Balance is unsettled, the illusion of it shattered—A perfect Darkness._

_The penumbra has been overshadowed._

“Or maybe their wasn't a divine intervention: you're exceptionally skilled, and that’s why you succeeded,” Armitage adds, as if he could hear him. Those shadows are within him; it has nothing to do with the Force, but it’s a dark power on its own strengthening Ben. Armitage’s touches are a perfect litany: they sing his praise and tell a prophecy of a future where rituals like this can be repeated and shared without fear or guilt.

Armitage presses Ben’s straining cock to his stomach, rubs it with the back of his hand, kneading and massaging it. The pressure of his blunt knuckles is bliss. His cheeks are pink; he thinks maybe he should’ve just jacked Ben off, preferably in a closet, to make it look ordinary and _normal,_ but he wanted to prove his worth, he wanted to show off. Ben realises Armitage has no idea that he’s a virgin, that there’s no competition to beat: he wants to create a memory that will send all the supposed others to oblivion. He wants to _earn_ Ben’s pleasure, and this desperation urges him on to make it look like the ritual he promised.

He has no idea how to do it.

Armitage, in every field of his life, takes pride in his hard work and expertise, but seems to completely disregard _talent:_ how he just _knows_ what to do, takes all the right guesses and fakes his way to success.

Ben cannot think of a way to tell him that he understands all this, that he wants to encourage and embolden him. What he can do is this: allow his head to loll back, moan his pleasure and grope at his own chest, leaving red marks there. Armitage soothes him, adds more oil. Ben kicks out, just letting his body to take over and answer the questions Armitage has.

 _You are the first;_ it’s on the tip of his tongue. _Nobody has ever—_

_I’m so glad it’s you._

_It had to be you, it was fate—_

_Fate is changing but now we’re here and—_

“We could have been on the opposite sides of war,” Ben blurts out, largely incoherent. He gets up to his elbows, urgent, even the theoretical possibility of _never having this_ frightening.

“I’d have done it all the same,” Armitage says, eyes hazy and hands working furiously, both of them, flying over the fat shaft.

“Liar,” Ben gasps, reaching for him. He only manages to grasp the necklace; uses it as leverage to yank Armitage closer, forehead pressed to his forehead. “You would’ve never—Not with a rebel scum—”

“Well, of course not. But if it was you.”

“You only like me because I’m yours.”

“No, that’s not true,” Armitage says, taken aback.

Ben looks at him, wide-eyed. His whole body is burning; Armitage is so close—he’s everywhere, the air to his fire, allowing him to blaze and radiate. His touch kindles him; Ben feels a warm glow igniting his groin, like a supernova flashing brightly. It’s cosmic; it’s sacred—he wants to tell Armitage, _I like you back,_ _your touch is blessed, your prayer is accepted, I see you, I feel you, I’m here to listen and taste you._

“I am yours though,” he manages, pants it into Armitage’s open mouth. Feels him smile. Feels his lashes flutter on his cheeks.

“Will you come for me, love?” Armitage whispers. Ben nods, still feeling the pressure to say more, because Armitage needs to know—

He cries out, a deep, broken groan. Weak; he sounds weak, but Armitage (in his devotion, in his mercy) absolves him of the shame, kisses him deeply, like a loyal servant of the lord would, or a fellow deity. Ben feels pulled tight everywhere; he cannot control the tremble of his thighs, or how the spurts of his semen get all over Armitage’s hands. He grabs a fistful of his hair to pull him deeper into the kiss, because he can control _this_. He loves how Armitage’s nose is pressed to his cheeks, he loves the heat and the weight of him, he loves—

Armitage kisses his lips swollen, to the point where they’re almost bruising, and keeps stroking his soft, oversensitive cock, keeps demanding more and more.

“Let me—” Ben murmurs, reaches for Armitage’s jodhpurs. Cups his cock; feels a wet, sticky patch.

Armitage pulls back, staring down at him—zealous, eyes frantic—and says, “Too late.”

Ben wants to tell him that this is just the beginning, but there are more kisses to share, more warmth and more closeness before the troopers would get back. He rolls them around, straddling Armitage’s narrow hips. He peels off his cowl and tunic.

Slowly, the rain stops falling.

* * *

Ben is wearing Armitage's necklace when he’s summoned to the _Supremacy._ He tucks it into his collar before he’d enter the throne room. Snoke would disapprove.

Personal objects and love bites likewise hidden, he enters, mind clear of tempting memories. He’s stopped short in his tracks and nearly forgets to drop to his knees.

His followers are there. Their presence is—muted, the flow of the Force disturbed by Snoke's immense ubiety, but Ben still recognises them, despite the strange masks they are wearing and the lack of greetings. Back in the Jedi temple they’d rush to welcome their secret master.

“What news of Skywalker?” Snoke asks.

There are only some old news to be told: Skywalker wasn’t the naïve idiot Ben always thought him to be. Somehow, he figured out that Ben was walking a forbidden path, and dragging other students along.

“He’s gone,” Ben replies. “I haven’t encountered any intelligent life forms on the planet, Master.”

Snoke hums, lounging on the throne. Ben’s gaze keeps wandering, snapping at the motionless students. They look as robotic and lifeless as the Praetorians. _What happened to them_ , Ben thinks, and then wonders, treacherously, _what did he do to them_ —

“Arise, Kylo Ren,” Snoke orders. Ben waits for somebody to move, then realises that Snoke meant him; this is who he is—the name sounds foreign until he imagines Armitage saying it. He pushes the thought away, gets to his feet.

Snoke makes an eloquent gesture, and one of his followers steps forward. Little Emurla; at sixteen, she’s the youngest of them. Her face is a flat mask. She has a helmet in her hand, gilded with silver.

“We made it for you, Master,” she says, voice unfamiliar. Snoke watches them with an amused air; he _lets it_ happen, but shakes his head just slightly, as if they were children exchanging badly made drawings and he was a wise parent who’s sure they can do better. Knowing that it must have been his fellow students’ request to make him this gift makes it all the more special.

“Thank you,” Ben— _Kylo_ says, attempts to hold Emurla’s gaze as he says it, let her know that he’s touched, thankful. He puts it on, fumbling only for a moment with the catches. It fits perfectly. The visor’s display is tinted red, set to a heat-map.

Snoke is cold as death.

“What did you feel, my Dark Enforcer, Master of the Knights of Ren?” Snoke asks. “What was it like to set foot in the ruins of the temple?”

A name, a rank, his own knights: these awards must come with a price. Kylo hesitates, unsure if he can be as loyal as he wants to be, as devoted. He’s not fooled: Snoke is not a jovial benefactor—but he _is_ wise, and just as powerful as Kylo wants to be one day; Snoke’s guidance is the key, his teachings, and all he has to do is to serve him.

He just doesn’t know how to pass this test—what was he _supposed_ to feel and how to influence his own emotions if they were wrong.

“I felt nothing,” he says. “They’re all dead. Their memories are dead to me as well. I have no regret. What happened that day made me stronger. All of us—”

He looks at his knights. The strange echo of his modulated voice hangs in the air.

“You have done well,” Snoke says on a syrupy voice. Beckons Kylo closer, as if he’s about to share a secret. Kylo walks up to him, and Snoke rises from his seat. He’s taller than him. That’s the least intimidating thing about him. He places a hand on Kylo’s shoulder. “You must let go of your past, everything that has happened until this moment.”

“Everything,” Kylo repeats. He wants to make it sound like a vow, but it’s a question. Snoke touches his neck. Kylo lets him, and doesn’t flinch until Snoke tugs at the leather strap of Armitage’s necklace. Pulls it out. There’s that condescending, forgiving smile again.

“ _Everything_ that happened happened to serve your transformation,” he says, almost a whisper. His voice fills the throne room nevertheless. “Take what you gained from it, and let go of the memories. Only ever look forward.”

Snoke closes his fist around the figurine of the goddess. Kylo can feel his knights watch him, even the guards, and he’s thankful for his mental guards but even more thankful for the mask as he feels himself pale. He’s going to be sick.

“I want you to be in command of the _Finalizer_. General Hux will get the same nomination. Be careful with him. He’s a treasonous little thing. He’d do anything for a promotion, or something as simple as praise.” Snoke pulls at the necklace hard enough that it snaps.

Kylo cannot ask for clarification. He feels like his throat is closed off. Did Snoke set up Armitage to—? But he read his mind, he saw everything—( _Everything that Snoke let you see._ )

He’s dizzy. He needs to get out of here.

 _A rite of passage_ , his mind whispers. _That’s what it was_.

_It had to happen. It served its purpose. It won’t happen again._

He’s not convinced that he has it figured out, not even as he watches Snoke pocket the necklace, visibly satisfied. But doubt is all that’s needed to taint the memory of Armitage’ phony smiles, to suggest that his attachment, no, his downright _obsession_ was too much, the way he’d always find an excuse to sit at his table and brush against him, how he let him sleep over, seemingly innocuous, but then blowing smoke into his mouth, as if he was getting desperate, annoyed by the slow progress—

How he brought up sex the first time they ever met. How it all started from there. A young, pretty major in an escape shuttle who’d dress him and braid his hair.

Snoke goes into an explanation of Kylo’s duties as co-commander, as if the matter of General Hux is done and settled. As if it’s so obvious that there’s nothing more to add.

Kylo listens, and doesn’t understand a word of it.

He doesn’t understand anything.

Armitage waits for him outside the throne room, asking excited questions ( _did you get a promotion? is that what the mask is for? did he tell you about the Finalizer?_ ) and then, _what’s the matter?_ Kylo doesn’t answer. He can’t risk talking to him and being lied to again.

* * *

This is how it ends: on Crait, with Hux (just _Hux_ now, just the General) curled up on the bleeding ground, clutching his stomach where Kylo kicked him. He made a point of never making any physical contact, but apparently slamming Hux around with the Force is not enough to teach him a lesson.

Hux didn’t lie about being resilient. Already, he’s getting up to his hands and knees, pulls himself up to sit, and Kylo watches him, thinking that he’ll never be rid of him, that he’ll keep coming back until Kylo loses his patience and snaps his neck.

There’s something in his eyes still that Kylo hates, even more than the half-smiles Hux can’t help, the calming whispers, the closeness. Hux looks permanently smug over any evidence of Kylo’s hatred, _I knew it’d end like this, I knew it’d end badly_ —it makes no sense that he’d be thinking that, when his kriffing masterplan was the oldest trick in the book _, seduction,_ which presupposes success and shouldn’t make Hux this boastfully bitter and vulnerable.

The strangest thing is this: Kylo had gradually became convinced that there was a secret undercurrent to all of Hux’s thoughts and motivations; since Snoke’s death, he can hear everything, and it’s banal, mundane: apparently, Hux has been _hiding_ the fact that he plans to become the Supreme Leader himself, and _that_ is his biggest secret.

There’s another: it’s nameless, small, tender. It’s the ember of a flicker. Kylo doesn’t dare to look at it, the warm glow blinding because it could mean he’s been wrong all along—and if it’s true, then Hux’s punishment was unwarranted, five years were wasted, and reconciliation is now impossible: too late, too little.

Kylo watches Hux get to his feet, dust his coat off almost as an afterthought. They’re in the cave where Kylo lost everything: the legacy of his father, his mother, Rey—his knight-to-be, and Skywalker is gone, and so is Snoke, every master he ever had and the last promise of a student with all the others dead.

Hux stays put. He’s standing at parade rest, wordless but smirking still, daring him to lash out again.

“That was unpleasant. Anything else I can do for you, Supreme Leader?”

If Kylo was a better man, he’d find a way to send him away. As things are, he reaches out and wipes the blood from Hux’s lips with his thumb.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Content warnings:** No happy ending because we end up with post-TLJ dynamics, including the abuse (which gets a one paragraph description) | massacre at Luke's Jedi school mentioned several times | it’s implied that Snoke, being the asshole he is, manipulated Kylo|Ben into thinking that Armitage just used him for sexual favours
> 
> Many thanks to Leala for betaing, and for littleststarfighter who encouraged me to write this fic and inspired me with her beautiful Benarmie drawings!
> 
> The title is from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6SV-5rm2Ig), which is probably what Armitage is listening to on loop while sipping wine and telling Millie he's totally _over it_
> 
> There's a [moodboard](http://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/175411189971/extreme-ways-ben-solo-finds-himself-in-the) for the fic!


End file.
